Category Archives: Technology

There has been a “controversy” rampaging the shit out of various segments of the media. The wool was pulled over your eyes, people. We’re talking cover-up you easily fooled sacks. A sham! Flim-flam! Even a semi-syndicated talk show exposed this farce. I can’t think of any synonyms for sham, flim-flam, and cover-up, so let’s get to the point.

Ren is not real.

Neither is Santa Claus. Fuck your Christmas.

Depend on your personal choice of media outlet, you heard it hear first. The little blonde Irish elf does not exist. Sorry, people. It was bound to be discovered sometime. FWTC did its level best backstopping a cover story for “Ren” and build a solid base for our house of lies. But, you were too smart. The Geraldo Riveras in podcast and Internet land Sherlock Holmes-ed themselves to uncover the truth. Hats off to everyone who has a degree in criminology. Degrees from un-accredited schools from Indonesia on a distance learning program. But, who am I to judge. Apparently, nobody. You can’t make judgements when you don’t exist.

What? This is what nothing looks like.

No, friends, Ren does not exist. I… I mean, “SHE” is just a practical joke. A combination of industry logos and urban legend. You’ve all been duped. I am….. shit, I mean, “SHE” is a scam. No one can agree on what kind of scam or who the hell “she” really is. It could be some sort of Irish pyramid scheme. Perhaps, some twisted person or persons came up with the idea to josh an entire nation just to create a publicity stunt to sell prophylactics made of bison scrotum.

FWTC Photo Department: “No. Just, no!”

Just like Roswell and Bigfoot, there are a few leading theories about who I… fuck! Who “she” really is. Here are just a few:

1. “She’s” a fat guy

This is, probably, the most obvious I mean, come on! We all know the vast majority of the “women” on the interwebs are fat, sweaty fucks with a tiny dicks. Christ, 90% of the “women” on Facebook are guys. It’s completely conceivable that this “Ren” character is really just some fat slob desperate for attention. Come on! This “girl” likes to drink, bang her “husband,” and loves the meat. Get it? Loves the meat?

What? What did you think I meant?

There’s NO WAY a “woman” like that in the world. Check that. NO FUCKING WAY! That shit is like turning lead into gold. It’s all a myth. Hearsay. It’s just not possible that a “female” can actually enjoy meat and meat byproducts along with alcohol and and steady stream of fucking the husband.

Let alone fucking him in the restroom of a Sobeys.

So, yeah. That’s got to be it. Unless…

2. “She’s” a spambot

Bots are annoying. Bots are cunning. Bots are fucking sneaky. How many times have you gotten a message from “Eliza Dushku” or “Avril Lavigne” or.. I don’t know… “God?” Well, we all sure as hell know it’s really some sweaty programer with more body odor than appeal.

That’s it. Take it all in.

This makes sense. First, you just scour the Net, and find a random girl on Facebook and second, pirate the fuck out of any pics set to “public.” Throw in a dash of spyware and a sprinkle of rerouting virus then, fucking viola! You got yourself insta-Ren!

Sizes may vary.

The main issue with these bots is that many of them are programmed to adjust to new perimeters. To adapt to new spam filters. To… evolve. If this, “Ren” is a spam bot, it’s more than just your basic con to worm its way into your hard drive. Come on, people! That’s one more fucking step towards sentience! Christ, we’re all focused on the wrong issue!

And I think we all know how this is going to end.

Unless….

3. “She’s” a fat chick

FWTC Photo Department: “We hate you all.”

Dude, just re-read #1 and replace all the “guys” with “chicks.” You can leave the “tiny dick” part. Depending on the fat chick.

4. “She’s” is really a government conspiracy

It’s not unusual to suspect the government, any government (except Canada, I guess) in a shit ton of covert operations and secret programs that inject nanobots into unsuspecting children’s flu shots to build a perfect combination of man and machine.

And, again, I think we all know how this ends…

5. “She’s” a celestial or atmospheric phenomenon

The less plausible theory being proposed by the most plausible stalkers (and their sad sad lives). This “Ren” is closer to the aurora borealis or some sort of Helix Nebula… The Eye of God, if you will.

Or of Sauron…

It has been proven or, at the very least, conceptually kicked around that celestial physics can theoretically influence a person’s consciousness. Don’t believe me? Fine. Don’t. I don’t fucking care. See it for yourself. Pony up the dough to attend the “Toward the Science of Consciousness “at the University of Arizona‘s Center for Consciousness. Take the kids and come on down to God’s misshapen ash can. Takes pictures of an honest-to-god astrophysicist! But what’s fun without some learning? It’s bullshit… that’s what it is. Included in this dream package you will have your choice of murderously boring lectures. Oooooooo will it be the on discussing quantum influences on the brain. No wait! The lecture about electromagnetic flares hurdling to Earth like New Jersey Governor Chris Christie warp speeding to the Buffet King. We’re onto you, “science.”

And you too, Governor.

6. “She’s” a incorporeal essence within us all

How do we know God exists? How about Allah, Buddha, or whatever the fuck the Vikings worshiped?

I have no idea, but I’m thinking of converting.

When annoying push comes to asinine shove, you don’t. As a “modern” society, we tend to incredulously cast looks toward our ancestors and remark on how “quaint” their beliefs were.

Awwww, how cute! It’s a guy with a puppy dog head!

Every society does that to the society that came before theirs. We’re not running around worshiping the sun or offering our children to Yahweh on a funeral pyre. Not often these days, anyway. However, we cling on to our “enlightened” (enough with the fucking quotations, already) religious philosophies. Jews KNOW God exists. Muslims KNOW Allah is watching over them. Christians KNOW Jesus was the Son of God. Throw the Dali Lama in there while we’re at it. His followers KNOW he is the reincarnation of the reincarnation of the reincarnation of the first… um… Lama?

Don’t judge me. I barely remember when to kneel during Mass.

OK, so what’s the fucking point? Each and every follower of every religion can’t produce concrete proof that their god(s) exist. Shiva isn’t in the directory and Thor doesn’t have a Facebook page.

Oh. Heh. He does. A shitload of them, too.

Even atheists believe that there is no higher power to the point where that disbelief turns into their beliefs. So, is it possible that this fictitious “Ren” actually exists in the hearts of man? Does “she” exist in our actions? Our thoughts? Our dreams? Is it possible that there is a little bit of “Ren” in all of us? How the fuck should I know? I don’t exist. Ask someone who isn’t a figment of your imagination.

________________________________________

*When not writing for the Fuse Was Too Cold, “Ren” exists only in the world of imagination.

*When not contributing, Jane Lane exists to make you miserable to the point of embracing the sweet release of death..

You would be surprised how often an artist had to try before he came up with his masterpiece. Michelangelo had to carve countless dongs out of marble to get “David” just right. I don’t know what he did with all the extras, but I’m pretty sure I have a guess.

It’s only a matter of time before some archaeologist finds this.

This is also true with FWTC. As Tresckow pointed out here, many an idea for an article is shit canned, dies on the table, or sits in the queue until someone takes responsibility for it. It’s not that all of these ideas suck (well, none of mine). It’s just that, sometimes, we can’t make them work. Even if we can, something comes along to ball- tag us into submission. The server could shit its pants just before we hit “save.” One of our computers will lock up and give us the finger. Some dipshit (Tresckow) could click the wrong button and end up using a later version of the write-up and derail the train. In any case, it happens to me, sometimes. This instance isn’t because the subject sucked or that I couldn’t make it work. It’s more like it was killed with an over abundance of laziness and cyber-bullshit clusterfuck.

Towards the end of 2010, Facebook’s Friend Finder bullshit was on everyone’s monitor. It would outright lie and do its best to con your dumb ass into signing up for their thinly veiled market research campaign. It pissed me off. I know, it’s hard to imagine. But, I shit you not, it sent me on more than one curse filled rant. So, I figured I’d write an article about it. Why not? If Ren can pull a bit about ConAir out of her ass, I surely can spin hate-fueled gold.

The start:

At this point, I’ve got a pretty good handle on things. I’m raring to go and stayed up all night looking for new ways to say, “dick bag.”

I remember when I never used Facebook. Those were wonderful times. I’m naturally pretty adverse to most technology; smart phones, navigation systems, online social media, shoes… Look, the point is that I like life to be simple.

Still too complicated!

Here, I proudly admit to my complete monkey-dumbassary as far as technology goes. As with most pieces on comedy websites, a well-trained author will throw in a little self-deprecating humour in an effort to pretend he’s on the same level as the readers. That’s not true. In actuality, the author is on a completely different plane of existence; too advanced to be understood by simple mortals and their love for ass-chapping reality television shows.

It took many a round of convincing by the wife that Facebook was a good tool to keep in touch with family and friends. You know, the fuckers I try to stay away from. But, as usual, I caved. Yeah, I’m a complete sucker for my wife. From angrily watching Glee with her to removing the frozen pizza from the box BEFORE I put it in the oven.

Set the stove on fire a few times and suddenly I’m the bad guy.

Yes, another jab at my baffling incompetence with being a functioning part of society. Please note that I have, once again, put my wife on a pedestal, calling notice to her ability to both deal with my shit and walk through life doing every-ever-fucking-loving thing perfectly. That, and I figured it’s a pretty good half-assed attempt in getting laid. You know, build her up while making myself look like a stooge. In case you’re wondering, it didn’t work.

I signed up for FB, after answering a thousand shit eating questions. Sure, I could have just opened an account and left it at that. But, FB doesn’t play that game. It mocks you every time you sign on. “Hey! Your profile is empty!” “Why not add some interests? Everybody else is doing it!” Even if I can manage to avoid that social networking bastard’s taunts, fucker goes ahead and tells the world that I’m a slack ass.

STOP JUDGING ME!

Now, I still have a pretty tight grasp on where this article is going. Remember, 1. I hate technology, 2. I hate Glee, 3. Facebook is a bag of dicks.

After I waded through all that touchy-feely bullshit I Ronco-ed that bad boy; set it and forget it. One of the reasons I chose FB (other than my wife’s mysterious, yet sexy power over me) is that it didn’t have as many of those annoying aps as MySpace. As soon as I got somewhat comfortable with my virtual existence I was hit by a shit storm of game invites, survey results, and constant advertisements calling me by name.

How do you know my name?! Who are you?!

Yeah, another compliment to the wife. Look, I need all the help I can get. I tend to get banished to the couch a lot. But, my point is clear. Facebook exploits a human’s basic need to play online games that aren’t worth two shits in Wyoming.

Oh, Adel questioned the reference to Ronco; saying no one born after 1978 was going to get it. As with everything else I’ve written, my philosophy is “Fuck you.”

Fuck it. It’s not 100% intrusive. These fucktarded ads are just in the left column. There are ways to ignore bullshit Mob Wars and Whose-it-fuckis FarmVille/town/empire/concentration camp. Wait. FarmVille Concentration Campmay be something I’d get into. Build your barbed wire fences little by little. Earn enough funds from the government to hire all the guards you need. And bullets… lots and lots of bullets.

I can just feel that I’m going to hell for this.

I’m particularly proud of this section. “FarmVille Concentration Camp” is the best idea in the history of social networking. Someone get on this NOW! I once hammered out a complete schematic of how this game would work. I had to draw it in pencil, because as you can tell, I suck royal ass at photoshop. Once completed, I showed it around to a few friends for their take on it- you know; railway stations, mines, labour groups, random executions… No one really said anything. I just got a call from Amnesty International.

Then, that’s it. It went off the rails. No, my writing didn’t spiral down into a pit of hellishness not seen since Ugly Betty. I banged out another page or two of ball-grabbing hilarity. But, oh no. Life gladly took my efforts on top of Mount Son-of-a-bitch and threw them over the side.

My computer and the FWTC server decided to have a pissing contest. It didn’t matter who won, because I lost. FireFox told me that my session lasted a little too long, so it had to shut it down. So what? The FWTC server generously supplied by wordpress updates and saves every few minutes. I may lose that last joke about vagina hockey, but I can add it once I reopen the file. See? Easy!

They were all out of “Easy” buttons.

Firefox decided it was imperative that I leave the website’s dashboard IMMEDIATELY! Something got its panties in a bunch and it wanted to shut the whole fucking system down. Alright. Fine. I’ll just click “save” on the dashboard and Bob’s your uncle. Wait a second…

What in fuck’s name just happened? the WordPress dashboard won’t let me save my work. In fact, it’s just staring at me like a retarded kid during a school bus ride. I click “Save” once. I click it twice; the little bastard just stands there. The “Save” button doesn’t give a shit about me or my needs. I can’t go forward, because Firefox won’t let me. I can’t reason with the dashboard, because it, flat-out, wants to see me in a rage that will take the house and half the block with it. Hmmm. The back arrow isn’t all grayed out. It’s my only choice, I guess. Otherwise, I’m going to be sitting in front of this fucking computer forever.

Pretty much the scenario I was in.

So, as I usually say when cars, computers, alcohol, and kids are concerned, Fuck It! The back arrow is my friend. It has to be. I just lost a day’s work here. Something has to still be hanging around on one of the previous windows. Right?

FUCK! That sure as hell didn’t work! It skipped a few dozen pages and took my ass to a page visit from two days ago? Why? Who’s fucking with me? One of the greatest masterpieces of all times is getting shit-canned because, the cyber-world is being a little bitch. All I wanted to do is complete this article, get it copy edited, then click “send.” BAM! Off to the next.

Well, when there’s hope, there’s someone to kick you in the head with an iron boot! I backtracked all the previous versions of my article. WordPress makes it relatively easy to compare and contrast versions just in case you want to include that line about that fat lady being arrested for causing a ruckus (to all you motherfuckas- sorry, I was channeling Busta Rhymes for a second) on that quiet car on that Amtrak train going from Oakland, CA to Salem, OR. I can’t quite remember if I called her a “douche bag with a phone attached” or “illiterate, obnoxious fat ass.” So, I go back into my archives (or versions as WordPress calls them) and check the older saved versions. That would have worked on any other day. Today is not any other-fucking day.

Yup. That was pretty much my day.

The most recent version that was saved was waaaaay back when I first started the article. It had a title and the by-line. That’s it. I was miffed. Maybe, a tad upset. Fine! I threw my keyboard out the window.

Happy now? Feeling good about yourself to out me as a rage-a-holic?

But, I couldn’t let my loyal fans (fan?) down! I diligently pieced together the article, calling upon my photographic memory to fit the puzzle together. After a couple of hours I was stoked. Screw the last version of the article! This one is IT! THIS ONE! It’s funnier, more offensive, and more ROODE than all the other versions combined. I AM ALL THAT IS MAN!

I hit “save” and sent a message to Tresckow that my future Nobel Prize worthy article was ready for copy editing. Now all I had to do was sit back and wait for the final product; a few funny pics here and there, some grammar correction, maybe a new variation on the term “ball sack…” That’s right, Jack. I was sitting pretty.

Somehow, some way Tresckow managed to fuck it up. Who the hell knows what happened? He hit the wrong key? Spilled whiskey on the keyboard? Called the server a reach-arounder? In any event, once again, my article was thoroughly punched in the taint. Half of it disappeared like in a bad Chris Angel sketch (sort of redundant). What I was left with was the original half of the article I lost a day before. Whether I was sabotaged, because of jealousy of my AWESOME writing skills or the server really wanted to dick me over; one thing was very clear:

I enjoy the Terminator franchise. Alright, “Rise of the Machines” left a bad taste in my mouth, but I could stand it. Many a person via comments section, blog, or pointless water cooler discussion wax philosophical about the Terminator Universe. How many possible timelines are there? What was the Catherine Weaver T-1000 planning? If Kyle Reese dies after Judgement Day would it really matter? Would John Connor cease to exist or would that timeline just play out? I don’t care a bloody bit about any of these questions. I just want to know why the bloody hell John Connor insists on making the same shit mistakes. Isn’t he paying attention?

It’s like his first time dealing with a mass murdering machine of death.

I am not really complaining about the versions of John Connor in the first three movies or in the television series. Those incarnations seem to have their collective shit together. Well, the John Connor of T3 was a whiny little bitch. I would embrace genocide if he were the only hope for mankind.

Yes, you. Stop your bloody bitching and get on with the whole saving humanity thing.

The worse offender is the John Connor of “Terminator Salvation.” Wait. Stop right there. Don’t complain that I’m late to the party with this one. Yes, the film came out an eon ago. It’s been playing non-stop on the premium channels. So keep your smart ass comments about my timeliness to yourselves.

Seeing it so many times got me to thinking that this John Connor is not a man groomed his entire life to lead the human resistance against the holocaust-happy machines. This bloke has seen, fought, and been pursued by these rampaging killbots before. So why the screaming fuck does he act like this is his first rodeo? Things like:

If one thing has been hammered into our heads repeatedly, it’s that the terminators don’t sweat small arms fire. Shotgun blasts? Sure, it will damage their pretty faces, but it won’t really phase them. What about rifles or machine guns? It depends on the calibre. It’s painfully obvious that your basic beer can shooting rifle isn’t going to do a damn thing but piss the metal harbinger of death off. Something attached to the side of a military-grade aircraft will do the trick. We know this. The terminators know it. Why does JC keep forgetting?

In the first few scenes of T4 we see John-John crawling out of an over-turned Huey. Then, WHAMO; a T-600 (or T-700; it’s all a little dodgy) with its legs blown off starts throwing him around. What’s the first thing Johnny does? He shoots it in the bloody head with a wimpy pistol. Seriously? You essentially grew up with virtually indestructible man-shaped machines and you still pull this bollocks? Someone didn’t pay attention during terminator school.

The Savior of Mankind tries it again toward the end of the film. He kicks his firearm up a notch to a relatively small calibre automatic rifle… expecting different results? Or, did he just say “sod it,” and figure he needed to use the ammunition anyway. Waste not want not. The little woman back home may be cross if Johnny Cakes comes home with leftovers.

“I know, Mum. No more bullets until I’ve finished the ones I have.”

2. He keeps trying to hit, smack, and punch the terminators

Right, then. This makes even less sense than #1. Toward the end of the film, after the prototype T-800 bursts from the cell and wreaks all sorts of havoc upon Connor’s person, an unbelievable thing occurs. He bitch slaps the CGI Arnold with the butt of his rifle. Isn’t this the equivalent of punching your concrete floor? At what point during his life did he learn that the Achilles Heal of the murder-death-kill bot was a stiff slap to the face? Was that a deleted scene in the second film?

With all that God-like knowledge J-to-the-C has about… well… everything, you would think he would remember this basic principle. Sissy-slapping the machines only makes your inevitable beat-down more pathetic. I’m not saying that he should just lie there and accept that his skull is about to be crushed like a peanut shell underneath Herman Goering’s patent leather jackboot, mind you. It’s just that this method of defense is slightly less effective than launching a barrage of “Yo Mama” jokes.

“My mother was a saint!”

3. EVERYTHING is a trap

Is your young-adult father on a SkyNet kill list? Has a bloke who’s really a prototype infiltration unit shown up out of nowhere to help? Resistance Command hand you a foolproof plan to turn off the machines? Congratulations! You’re about to be buggered. You don’t need to be Admiral Akbar to realize it’s a trap.

No shit?

Everything‘s a trap. JC knows this. Mama Connor told him via outdated audio cassette tape. The machines are cold, calculating sods. Come on, Johnny Appleseed! You’ve been fooled a few times before. Remember your injured mom calling out for your help in the smelting plant? TRAP. Remember the T-850 in “Rise of the Machines” telling you it was able to get close and kill you because of your emotional attachment to the model? TRAP. This isn’t news, John-a-ling-a-ling. What are the odds of a SkyNet built and programmed machine practically delivered to your door is going to help you rescue your pop without it being a trap? So what are you supposed to do? “He has to save his father or he’ll never be.” Firstly we don’t really know that. That’s using “Back to the Future” temporal math. If you use Star Trek Mirror Universe math, killing off dada while Connor is an adult may not effect things at all. JC already exists. There’s nothing written in stone that he HAS to send pops repeatedly back in time to protect and bump uglies with mother. For fuck’s sake, he already knows all the bloody moves the machines are going to make.

But, I suppose if you want to play it safe Connor-mania could launch an all out search mission for daddy, then lock him in a closet for ten years. Here’s an idea, call for him during one of your fireside chats. Tell him to meet you at the burned out Starbucks. Too risky? Well you know he lives in Los Angeles. There are three people left in that burned out husk of a city. Kyle isn’t going to be hard to find.

4. If you can’t blow the bloody thing up, just run

As I covered in #1, anything short of a 80 calibre or a Howitzer isn’t really going to do jack. Sure, it may make you feel like you’re accomplishing something, but in the grand scheme of things it’s just wasting everyone’s time.

Here comes mechanized death. You have an axe, lead pipe, and nunchucks. What do you do?

A: Break out your finest Bruce Lee moves.B: Smack its head around with the lead pipe and hope it gets dizzy and has to lie down.C: Use the axe to smash your way through the door and get the hell out of there.

If you chose anything but C, you are destined to die a horrible, painful death. It makes as much sense as starting a fight with a motorcycle club armed with a juice box and fuzzy dice while wearing ONLY a speedo.

How the hell is this guy married to Isla Fisher, again?

Run! Don’t think. Just run. Unless you have a portable rocket launcher and/or a small thermonuclear device, just beat cheeks out of there. There’s no shame in it. You’re a pansy if you run away from a bee. You’re just being realistic when running away from a soulless killing machine that wants to rip out your spine.

Let’s review:

Running away from this = PUSSY

Running away from this = SENSIBLE

IF there’s a sequel to “Salvation” I do hope they put together some sort of Idiot’s Guide for fighting terminators and other machines that want you dead. These little facts are like the laws of physics. They do not change. They cannot be changed. You look like an asshole attempting to change them.

The LAST thing you’ll want to do is fumble about when you find one of these buggers in your loo.

That’s right. Read that title over again. Again. One more time. Got it, now? I fucking rule. Of course, this is no surprise to you readers. How many other little blonde Micks can mock international law, escape molestation by a clown on Saint Patrick’s Day, and manage to rub elbows (among other body parts) at a Playboy Mansion Halloween extravaganza? None. You know none. Don’t even try to pretend you do. You’re just embarrassing us all.

You know who you are.

2010 will be known for a lot of things: um, something about whales, maybe? There was a lot of bullshit surrounding the IPhone. Then, again, 2010 was the year when people, the world over, were smacked in the taint by the roughest recession since the years of Warner Brothers cartoons in movie theaters and cars were built to last. Come to think of it, 2010 sucked a major amount of yak ass. Companies downsized, business went broke, government lost its mind, and that Justin Bieber fucker was everywhere. 2010 was such a shitshake, even my own Da pined for the “good old days” of the Cold War.

Say what you want about it. The world was a lot more stable, food and fuel a shit ton cheaper, and if worse came to worse, mankind would go out in a fiery vengeance of style.

There is one shining part of 2010 that must be remembered and recorded for the sake of future history. We don’t want our future history only talking about gun fights at Florida school board meetings or devoting an entire chapter in a text book to the cluster fuck that is BP. There was one brightly burning light that 2010 emitted during its waning hours filled with party goers blowing chow then trying to get into the pants of someone who just might end up being a distant cousin. What was this shining beacon of hope? Where was it? What did it mean? Calm the fuck down. I’ll tell you.

It was ME. That’s right world, ME. I joined FWTC in 2009. I did what I had to do to get on the ground floor of something that will never make a dime or win any journalism awards. That kind of shit is gold! After the arguing, death threats, and constant hazing I clawed my way to the top! I made it to “COLUMNIST. There’s no pay, no perks, and little in the way of publicity. But, Momma was determined to break the racial barrier and shoe horn a nutty little blonde Irish chick into the ranks of FWTC. Roode and Tresckow bitched and moaned about it. Roode didn’t want more chick shit on the site, being that Adel had that covered. Tresckow was convinced I would use the site as a soapbox to spread my anti-loyalist beliefs to the masses. (if hating Loyalists in Northern Ireland is wrong, I don’t want to be right). The point I heard time and time again was, “You’re not a writer. There’s a difference between doing funny things and WRITING about them.” Fuckers didn’t believe I could translate my drunken comedy of errors into an article. What BULLSHIT!

After a bit of whining and the occasional exercise I like to call, “Total War” (steel Roode’s tires, sign Tresckow up for a fuck ton of large and lovely women catalogs to be sent to his home, and harassing Adel every day by rearranging her furniture in innovative and surprising ways) they finally threw me a “guest writer” gig. It got a good amount of hits and FWTC decided to keep me on. Like I was some sort of lost fucking puppy. Like adding The REN would have done anything but make this piece of shit, dime-a-dozen blog rocket to the stars!

I had a bit of a handicap going for me; the other writers having a year head start and all. Adel, Roode, and Tresckow already found their niches and some “loyal” readers. That didn’t deter me. I jumped right in to hammer out some flaming awesomeness in 2009. Then, I decided that 2010 was going to be Momma’s year!

Interesting thing is that after I was two or three articles in, the site’s readership went up. On our Facebook Page it seemed that my articles were getting passed around a lot more than the others. What could that mean? Am I eons funnier than the other writers? Is it because I am witty and urbane? Perhaps it’s because I have been elevated to FWTC‘s sex symbol? Yes. Yes, to all of these. I’m fucking fantastic. The readers know it. Our sponsors know it. Future history knows it.

I fucking rule!

Perhaps, the best indicator that tells us 2010 was the year of the Ren are the readership stats. The boring side of any blog is, without a doubt, the admin side. That’s where our geeks look at all the statistics to see which article was the most popular in any given week or month; which author was the most popular, etc. Tresckow and Adel are the number crunchers; plowing through it to get the quarterly stats and come up with a game plan for the site’s sponsorships and whatnot. Well, as most sites are want to do at the end of the year, we wanted to connect all the dots and see just who among us was the most “popular.” Which one of us had the most read articles, who stayed on top the longest, blah blah blah. I have no interest in calculations. I’d rather drink the better part of a bottle of Shanahans and wake up with a stripper (a HOT stripper, please). I’m the sort of girl who just wants to hear the end result.

For the love of God, Tresckow! Just tell me what the fuck all the math means!

I tuned out just about everything Tresckow’s said about growing our sponsorship base, advertising, topic and writer expansion… JUST GET TO THE FUCKING END! Flipping to the next slide, a table was shown listing all our articles, writers, and topics in order of popularity and readership. I looked up, expecting Roode to start tap dancing; fucker always thinks he’s the one who puts butts in the seats. All I heard was, “Are you fucking kidding me?” bellowing from Roode’s mouth like the words were on fire. The top author of EVERY quarter of 2010 AND the number 1 author for the entire year was

So, what will 2011 bring for the NUMBER 1 writer on FWTC? I’m not sure. Maybe a series of video blogs instructing the viewer on the proper ways of peeling a potato. Or a pod cast where I can dispense my worldly wisdom of the most efficient and orgasm-tastic sexual positions. Oh, yeah. Bacon. Bacon must be a steady theme throughout 2011. Shit, maybe I’ll contract with cable and launch my own reality show. Well, “surreality” show”

Alright, auto companies, I’m on to you. Decade after decade you churn the same shit boxes on four wheels out for a drooling public with more credit than brains. Each one has some bell or whistle that is slightly different than the bell or whistle the other guy has. Maybe next season the Ford Explorer will have air conditioning in the seat so you can cool that sweaty taint of yours after a long day at the beach. They can call it the “taint blaster.” No more will Ford owners have to worry about their wet taints on the drive home. That’s fucking progress!

But, you'll still need this for a thorough clean.

I understand the appeal of certain car names; Mustang, Charger, Bronco. That shit makes you want to wrangle up a herd of stampeding cattle or single handedly win World War II. A bad ass who quips one liners while he stomps another asshole where the bad guy’s face used to be always drives sex on wheels. Take Jaguar, for instance. JAGUAR. The name, alone, hammers images of eight cylinder justice and constant super model boning in your head. These names don’t disappoint. Jaguar is as impressive to drive as it is to say. You just know the vehicle is going to be awesome when it’s named for a carnivorous killing machine or a wild, rampaging horse. Quick! What comes to mine when you hear the word “Yugo?”

Whooohooo! Let the boot knocking begin!

Man is, by nature, a stupid and gullible creature. Marketing firms and car companies know this. They invest so much time in the product placement and brand name that there’s little left over for the actual car mechanics. Or, they just pull the name out of their asses ten minutes before they make the commercial. Either way, someone is fucking the pooch here. Car names no longer instill boner raging masculinity. For fuck’s sake, there’s nothing sexier than a smoking hot blonde behind the wheel of a Mustang. Put that hot blonde behind the wheel of a Volarie and.. shit. Nevermind. Chances are that guys wouldn’t notice the car at all. So that’s just a shitty example.

Um, car? There's a car?

Regardless of the calibre of hot blonde behind the wheel or on the hood, you’ll still be stuck with a car that sounds like a third grader’s super secret fort. It’s hard to narrow down the list of banana sandwich goofy car names. So, this list is pretty much a random assortment of marketing retardation. Sometimes there is a story behind a name. Other times it’s just made up bullshit.

It was a more simple time in the early 20th century. People played jacks, hop scotched.. shit with kicking cans or marbles. Whatever. I don’t really know. It was a barbaric age before iphones and internet porn. But, there was no excuse for phoning in the name for one of the earliest cars ever made. If anything, you want its name to rock harder than a metal band playing in the crater of an active volcano. Studebaker decided to go a different route. It was meant to refer to how they “dictated the standard” for automobiles. Instead, it sounded more like a car that was hell-bent on staying in power and eliminating its enemies.

Obviously someone remembered a random word from their high school history class. I’m not sure if the name is supposed to conjure up images of something gigantic or impressive. Maybe it’s supposed to suggest it can fend off the British Navy while conquering territory. Come on, there are plenty of other words from school Nissan could have used instead of “Armada.” How about the Nissan Galleon? The Whaler? The Nissan Small Pox sounds catchy.

Be the first to own the 2011 Nissan Guillotine!

3. Ford Probe: 1989-1997

Quick! What comes to mind when you hear the word “probe?” Is it the worst performing car of 1997? Does a Mazda GD platform rip off stuck in 4 cylinder hell flash in your head?

No. It's probably the image of one of these bastards jamming a piece of hardware up your ass.

Exactly, who thought this name was a good idea? Nothing about the word “probe” sounds enticing. Who said, “PROBE! That’s GREAT,” during a board meeting? That’s what we want in a car name. Who wouldn’t want to fork over some cash for a car with a name associated with some of the most horrific alien abduction stories known to man? Was the “Ford Rape” taken? Take advantage of society’s desensitization to porn and slap on a label with some gravitas. I would be proud to be the owner of a Ford Rim Job or a Ford Donkey Punch.

4. Toyota Sequoia: 2000-Present

Well, shit. No word in the English language embodies speed like the name of a big ass plant. Yeah, I get it. A sequoia is supposed to symbolize the hugeness that is this SUV. It also symbolized a gigantic immobile-fucking-object. Forget “lightning” or “cheetah.” Toyota is happy to compare their vehicles to a fucking tree.

5. Dodge Coronet: 1949-1976

This thing either sounds like a musical instrument you were stuck with in middle school, because all the saxophones were taken or a type of toilet paper.

The predecessor for the aircraft carrier sized Dodge Diplomat, the Coronet was Dodge’s first go at a post-war design. Some of its generations looked downright awesome.

The 500 Coupe would instantly get a guy laid. *citation needed*

But, as soon as you say “Yeah, this is my Dodge Coronet,” you’ve castrated yourself. There’s no good way to say it. Fucker might as well be called the Dodge “Small Dick Premature Ejaculation.” Any self-respecting guy would have ripped that name badge off with a screw driver and hammer.

6. Toyota Tacoma: 1996-Present

Toyota makes our list for a second time. Aside from the fact that the Tacoma is designed for the yup-fuck crowd who like to drive SUVs with the cargo section roof missing and pretend it’s a pick-up, it’s named for one of the shittiest holes in Washington. Nice going, Japan. You’ve forever associated this wannabe truck with gang violence and the putrid smell of one of the world’s chunk blowingest pulp plants.

Love that new car smell.

7. Renault Le Car: 1972-1996

Those fucking French. “Le” has no business being in front of “car”. These fuckers weren’t even trying. OK, it was officially called the Renault 5. But, in Canada and the US, it was marketed as Le Car. What the fuck kind of effort went into this translation? Just because a bunch of cheese eating surrender monkeys dubbed it “The Car” in French doesn’t make it chic. The only thing more asinine is the fact that this piece of shit was one of the first super minis. This shit has no place in Canada. I saw one of these atrocities in Calgary when I was a kid. I bet the pretentious son-of-a-bitch that bought it thought he was on the cutting edge of the international car scene. I went back in the winter and saw that fucker completely buried under snow. Nice buy, dipshit. Way to keep the Albertan winter wonderland in mind while car shopping.

8. Toyota Yaris: 1999-Present

At this point in the list, I’m forced to assume that Toyota just doesn’t care. This poor bastard tried to get a straight answer from them. Essentially, as their marketing lore goes, the inspiration came from the Greek Goddess, Charis; a symbol of all that is beauty and elegance. Then, for reasons only known to their corporate marketing monkeys and Satan, they crammed Ya in front of the name to represent the German word for “Yes.” Yeah, that explanation is real. So, here you have a car which is almost obscenely a hatchback, the misspelling of a German word, and the Japanese pissing all over Ancient Greek traditions. I, for one, can’t wait for the Honda Pontius Pilate to roll out.

The NEW 2011 Pontius Pilate has seat warmers, sat nav, bluetooth, and an onboard hand sanitizer to allow you to "wash your hands" of many of today's little traffic mishaps.

9. Chevy Avalanche: 2002-Present

I’m not sure likening a vehicle to a natural disaster is good for your image. In my experiences, people RUN AWAY from avalanches, not towards them. Is this Chevy’s ham fisted way of conveying the “surrounded with comfort” feeling. Is the comfort in the cabin of one of these yuppie trucks that jammed packed? Is the driver virtually smothered by mp3 ports, plush upholstery, and cup holders? Claustrophobia must be a big thing in the auto industry. But, how wise is it to cater to the small pro-smothering demographic? And will Chevy be tapping other niche demographics in the future? I’m sure their over paid marketing geniuses could crank out names that would appeal to tiny demos that are into anal fisting, water sports, or S&M. Damn it, the television ads practically write themselves! The 2011 Chevy Fister would definitely turn some heads.

10. Kia Soul: 2008-Present

Is this way Kia is trying to give the white man soul (Read: music)? Or, are they attempting to give us a four-wheel spiritual essence (Read: spirit)? I see a lot of things when I look at this car and none of them is “soul.” I wonder if this is, yet another, case of random words floating around the minds of the company’s marketers. Someone had to have watched a bit of Soul Train late the night before while contemplating suicide.

Why stop at soul? As with the other cars on this list, there are hundreds of random words a company can half- assedidly stamp on the back of a car. If we’re talking intangible things that relate to the human condition, how about the “Kia Conscious” or “Kia Hootzbaugh?” If ever you find that your soul is more connected with your car than with humanity, drive your mobile soul into the nearest body of water.

I know there are dozens more goofy, groin-grabbingly good examples of an auto manufacturer taking a marketing dump on its products. But, the more I think about the idiocy, the more aggravated I get. The Gremlin, The Judge, Pinto, this list is fucking endless. There’s only one way to derail this hate train.

Every few years, Hollywood comes out with a new fad based on decades old technology. New sounds, special features, inventing a media format, then making it obsolete by inventing another one the next year. Blu-Ray can suck sweaty shaft!

Perhaps, the flavour of the year is movies in 3D. It supposedly “enhances” the movie watching experience. The only enhancements I want at the theatre is butter substitute MIXED throughout my popcorn (enough of this dumping it on the top shit) and a means to silence bullshit slack asses who pull wondertardery during the film. You know those fuckers. They text each other, don’t turn their cells off, and conduct loud ass conversations as the movie progresses. It doesn’t have to be complicated. Maybe each seat is over a trap door. Once a douche bag starts cracking wise, the seat falls into some sub- basement where all of his kind are trapped. Forever. I’m envisioning a room that looks like the sub-basement bathroom from Saw.

Yeah, that'll do nicely.

Some of you may not be old enough to remember when black and white movies with sound were state-of-the-art. I don’t. How old do you think I am? Well, when the glorious break through of COLOR came into the picture, movies were more vibrant, which allowed for more creativity. Then, some douche bag (Ted Turner, maybe) thought it would be a great idea to colorize everything that has ever graced the silver screen. Well, not everything. I’m relatively sure “Birth of a Nation” is still in black and white. Come t think of it… that’s sort of funny. The KKK can either stick with the current version they show at bake sales and club sheet washing day and be forced to live with a BLACK and white film. See how black is all up in the craka’s face? The alternative is to colorize it. That’s right, COLORIZE; adding COLOR to the klan. Can’t a person get killed for bringing color to the group?

Call it whatever you want. But, you guys are one leprechaun wearing assless chaps away from a full on gay pride parade.

In the past year or so, movie directors and a large segment of movie nerds have been pissing in their pants over 3D movies. Oooooooooooo! 3D! People are convinced that it adds depth and dimension to the film. We’ve got news for you; if a movie’s plot sucks complete and utter sweaty platypus scrotum making it all pretty in three dimensions and whatnot isn’t going to make it any better. For fuck’s sake, Jaws 3 was in 3D and that piece of shit all but caused eye cancer. The only thing that made it bearable was the cinema viewing atrocity that followed it and subsequently killed the franchise.

Seriously, what the fuck was Michael Caine doing in Jaws: The Revenge?

OK, so adding a third dimension is supposed to add “something” to the experience. This shit really started picking up after Avatar stomped a mud hole in everyone’s ass. Blue cats! Now there’s rumor of George “piss all over the original Star Wars movies” Lucas is contemplating the re-working and re-release of the first three Star Wars movies (episodes 4-6 for the retarded) in 3D. Whooooohooooo! Now we get to see Greedo shoot first in 3D! Maybe they’re right and a third dimension will add another layer to the films. Another layer of suck, that is.

No matter how hard you try, most movies won’t be any better with an added third dimension. Some of them may even be worse. Don’t believe me? Well, how about:

Few movies exemplify suck as well as The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. Here was a Bill Murray vehicle that was advertised as a quirky, ironic, and funny film. I fell for it. Lots of people did. Instead of quirky, ironic, and funny you got low grade version of Yellow Submarine , a baffling role for Jeff Goldblum, and Owen Wilson’s bullshit.

Pictured: A steaming pile of cinema.

The only thing that could possibly make this theatrical barf bag worse would be if some smart ass with too much time on his hands turned it into a 3D shit sandwich. Why, with 3D you can see the indifference and trippy kindergarten art leap off the screen. The “action” scenes (read: horrible play acting) would slap the audience in the face with red hot mediocrity! When I say “audience” I mean that one guy asleep in the back of the theatre. Nevermind, don’t wake him. It’s best if has no memory of this pile of monkey spank.

2. Kazaam (1996)

If we, as a society, ever lost the words, “shit” and “abortion” Kazaam could go to bat for both. It is both a pile of fly drawing shit and a cinematic abortion the likes rarely seen since the beginning of film. If you’ve read any of the FWTC articles, you know that we like formulas. They just seem to put everything in perspective. Our scientists worked hard and came up with this mind-blowing, award-winning formula for you.

So what is there, exactly, to 3D? Is Shaq the kind of person we want to add a third dimension to? If you said yes, I want you to bean yourself in the head with a shoe. Right now. NO! If anything, this piece of camel dung needs a dimension taken away. This bastard needs to be downgraded to 1D. That can be done, right?

If only Kazaam was this good.

3. Manos: The Hands of Fate (1966)

Look, the less said about this turd, the better. Let’s just skip this one. Even Joel and the bots had problems passing this kidney stone of a movie.

Servo and Crow start losing it at the 5:50 mark.

4 Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot (1992)

If you’re too young to remember this movie, considered yourself blessed. You see, about 100 years ago, there was an action star named Sylvester Stallone. Fuck it. Rocky. Remember Rocky? He was the slightly functionally retarded boxer from Philadelphia. He both lost and won to the best name any boxer, fake or real, could ever have. Apollo Creed. Damn it, why can’t that be someone’s real name? It’s completely wasted in today’s society. Before you spout that little ice skating douche, Apollo Ono, I urge you to shut the fuck up. I’m not going to the trouble of repeating myself on this issue. Re-read, A Canadian on the 2010 Winter Olympics: AKA Televised Suck.

I said read it!

All that is beside the point. This was a “star vehicle” capitalizing on Stallone’s ever fleeting stardom and Estelle Getty’s, um… Golden Girls fame? That doesn’t sound right. Who the hell came up with this idea? Pairing an action star with one of the Golden Girls. Alright, I can definitely see Bea Arthur in an action movie; considering she had bigger balls than Stallone. In fact, why wasn’t that a movie? Now, I’m pretty pissed. That would have rocked hard! Damn it! I just high-fived my computer monitor due to the sheer awesomeness this movie would have created.

We're damn sure Bea could both kick Apolo Creed's ass AND be the ultimate Bond villian.

5. The Piano (1993)

The Piano is a chick flick that made me want to drill a hole in my head, but that’s not why it’s on the list. Stated plainly, no one wants to see Harvey Keitel’s junk in 3D.

I don’t even know where to fucking begin with this genocide of a movie. Battlefield Earth was a Scientology suck-fest created to be a cinematic circle jerk for the followers of the all mighty L. Ron Hubbard. Shit, that just probably got FWTC and me on some sort of international Scientology hit list. That sort of shit has happened before.

Fuck! They're going to send a bloated, dredlocked Vinney Barbarino after us now.

They might have to invent a 4th dimension for this movie to suck any less. I’m not even sure what the hell that is. With our luck, it will involve smell. Nothing propels a shitty cult movie to stardom like being able to actually smell Barry Pepper’s pit stink. A 3D image of a rotund Forrest Whitaker isn’t going to do this film any favours. Moses smell the roses! I’m pretty sure this tard-a-thon is classified as illegal by the Geneva Convention.

6. I Know Who Killed Me (2007)

There used to be a time when Lindsay Lohan was hot. Think about it. When she was in Mean Girls she was supremely bangrastic. [I can say that, she was 18 when this movie was filmed. Therefore, that statement wasn’t creepy at all]

Like a lost civilization, we're still searching for remnants of a once sane and hot Lindsay Lohan.

Then, I Know Who Killed Me was released. What the fuck happened? No, the change wasn’t gradual, but I expected some sort of movie magic to revert her to her former, hotter, healthier self. CGI that fucker! Nope. What we saw on the screen was a half step away from the Lindsay Lohan tabloid crotch shot or mug shot of the week.

OK. This picture doesn't help my case.

Shit, I think I’m changing my mind. Maybe producing this in 3D would help. Not for the entire movie, but just the stripper pole scenes. With the sound muted. And all the non stripper scenes cut.

7. The Hottie and the Nottie (2008)

NO! Fuck this! I refuse to write anything remotely connected to Paris Hilton. This is bullshit! This article is over!

Everywhere I look I see mothers whoring their children around. Well, not literally or this would be a different article, entirely. I’m referring to the estrogenical pushers who talk and/or barrage you with photo after photo of their kids until the victim’s head explodes. It was easy enough, ten years ago, to feign a heart attack or flat-out run away. However, technology has changed that. You can’t get away. Perhaps, the medium that gives turbo moms the largest outlet to assault everyone with a never-ending snow storm of play by-play toddler action is Facebook.

Which will eventually chronicle your daughter's extra circular activities at university.

I’ve never been one to show my kid off to the point of being obnoxious. In fact, most people are surprised I have one in the first place. No evidence really exists outside my home. I’m a private person. Also, I don’t want to be a dickweed. For years I’ve had to endure the endless stories of people’s children and grand-children. Everything from their first dump to the cute thing they did with a blender and duct tape. I don’t bloody care! Stop it! It’s one thing to be proud of your offspring. It’s quite another to be an outright wanker about it.

Yeah, yeah. I'm pregnant too, but I'm not an attention whore about it.

Some parents will take offense to this. Frankly, I don’t give a shit. FWTC covered the Top 4 Most Self Important Facebook Status Messages, last year. It’s my duty to elaborate further. As a mother, I refuse to immerse myself in my children. NO! I am an individual! I will practically hide the fact that I have kids, just like my mother before me. That’s how real parents do it. So, I pledge:

1. Not use my child’s photo as my profile pic.

Sure, every parent has the right to show off the little person that was ejected from their loins. But, all too often, I’ve seen many a mom exclusively use their kid’s photo as their own. What is this supposed to accomplish? Every bloody time I see an update or get a wall post from you I get to see the face of your Mongoloid child. What if my womb was more barren than Wyoming? Do you think your constant reminder that you have a damn child is doing me much good? Do you care? The line between mother and child must be drawn. You’ve had the kid already. Move on. The novelty wears off in a few days when you realize the little crying poop machine isn’t going to leave.

"Crikey! Are you still here? Wake up and start repainting the dining room you bloody slacker."

2. Not to use my child’s ultrasound as my profile pic.

OK, knock it off. What in the bloody blue fuck are you trying to prove here? What are we looking at? A storm approaching Florida? The face of Christ appearing on a blackboard? The radar scan of a ballistic nuclear submarine? Oh, it’s your uterus.

Radar screen from the S.S.S. Gryphon. Or, maybe it's a kid. Who knows.

I’m expecting another mouth to feed by the end of this year. As SOP, I regularly visit the doctor who pretends to only look at my cooter strictly in a professional manner (he’s not fooling me). I refused to take a copy of the ultrasound home with me. My children are going to have enough awkward photographs taken in middle and high school. We don’t need to start that awkward phase pre-birth. What am I really going to do with an ultrasound, anyway? The last thing I need my kid to find is a picture of herself as a fetus next to her university graduation photo.

Look at it this way, your child is naked in your womb. So, in a way, you are the purveyor of fetal child porn. Are you proud of yourself, you pervert?

3. Post a detailed child play-by-play.

My kid does some cute things. I have no doubt that the next one will, as well. Of course, my genes are prone to building intelligent, perfect human specimens. Whenever my son does something truly momentous (first steps, honor roll, first successful oppression of Northern Ireland) I will damn well mention it on my Facebook page. MENTION. Not type out a soliloquy.

Now this is an achievment to be touted.

But, there are some out there in cyber-land that post updates on EVERY GOD DAMNED MUNDANE ACTION their child does. Why? Are we better off knowing your son just ate a fistful of dirt? I won’t sleep better now that I know your baby took a shit on the dog. Oh, looky! Your toddler just discovered the joys of sticking grubs up his nose!

Yes, it's wonderful your kid likes to take naps on the railroad tracks. Maybe you should wake him up before the 2:30 to Billings passes though.

4. Whine about my motherly plight

Anyone who tells you that caring for and raising children is the most precious gift the good Lord has given humanity is an outright lying bastard. Either this dumbass is childless and spouting philosophy he knows nothing about or s/he has children, but have “people” to care for them ala Paris and Nicky Hilton.

Yes, well cared for. Not in the least a couple of grubby whores coasting on daddy's name.

I’ll do you one better. Raising children can be one of the most rewarding experiences of your life. It very well could be something you look back on as your finest achievement. Your son is the governor of Idaho and has managed to balance the budget. Your daughter is world renown as the best thing that has ever hit the theatre for centuries. All the work you put into molding your brainless lumps of mashed potatoes paid off!

Laugh, if you want. This kid just wrote the mechanics for a real world warp drive.

Well, there’s another side to this coin. You’re kid is an asshole, 43, and still living with mom and dad. He’s always sooo close to landing that job at Jack in the Box once he masters the grueling fast food entrance exam. His on again, off again girlfriend goes by the name Tanga Ray and the kids she’s toting around… well there’s a 50/50 chance some of them share a link on the genetic level with his family unit. That’s right mom and dad, enjoy your bastard grandchild! We’re not sure which one it is, so pick the one that you like the most. We’ll have him go through a 212 point safety inspection and hose him off. Enjoy this kid. Choose wisely. Chances are Grandma and Grandpa, you are going to end up raising that kid yourself while your son is in jail, the hospital, or just drops off the radar. Suckers.

Sometimes the goods are damaged beyond repair. That's when you let the Army have a crack at him.

Regardless of what little Toddy chose to shove in the furnace or that baby Tiki found your check book and thought it would make one fine ticker tape parade, we all have to endure weird shit like this. No parent gets to sleep regularly for the first 3 years of the child’s life. It’s not my rule, it’s an official federal one. We know you’re tired. Writing bitchy FB posts about it every 20 minutes isn’t going to help. It quickly tires out the innocent friends on your page and some of them may want to do you bodily harm for what they consider emotional torture. Whining that little Danny keeps throwing your keys into the toilet won’t get them out any faster. You better get those before little Danny figures out how to flush.

OK. I get it. The Wii is here to stay. Fine. Whatever. The little SOB is everywhere; at the mall, on television, at conventions, and even in my house. IN MY HOUSE! Mother of God!

Where I sleep!

At first, I thought this was a fad like ColecoVision or the government caring about unemployment. No such luck. Almost everyone has been caught in the wii’s mighty motion capture grasp. For shit’s sake, kids start waving the Wii controller around as soon as they escape the womb. Old people, who have long been inept at everything technological, can suddenly play a quick nine on the virtual golf course.

Whatever, grandma. You're still going to break a hip.

I’m guilty of playing a few games on this infernal thing, myself. But, I lose interest quickly. Other than the fact that you look like a friggin epileptic train wreck while playing, I find it generally screwed up when the games being played are replicating shit you can do for real. Outside! With… people. You know, interaction? Sure, some smart ass will be the first to point out that I don’t do shit outside. That’s true. But, I sure as hell don’t simulate the shit I refuse to do in real time in my living room. How the hell is any of this sane?

Get back to me when TNG holodeck technology is freely available so I can simulate sitting on my ass in different parts of the world.

Society is the late Roman Empire and the Wii is the barbarian horde climbing over the walls. You dig? Try this shit on for size:

Increased shut-in population:

Once upon a time, there was a gamer. The gamer, in his (let’s face it, it’s almost always a guy) natural habitat is pretty harmless. Sitting in his parents’ basement covered in two weeks worth of body odor, the gamer doesn’t venture outside in reality. First off, the sun is just too damn bright and will literally set his near translucent skin on fire. Second of all, whatever social skills they had as high school outcasts have vanished as they crossed the line into social outcasts.

Above: Winners!

But, that’s not enough for the insatiable appetite of Nintendo. Hell no! EVERYONE must spend every moment of their spare time in front of the TV! People who used to unleash hurtful (but accurate) barrage after barrage of ball kicking insults at the gamer are now one of them. Oh, they look like regular people. Most of them have a job and are cleaner… oh so much cleaner. But Wii is slowly turning them into compulsive couch weights bent on playing “just one more game of Mario Kart.”

Coincidence? We think not.

Playing on nostalgia to control your mind

People love nostalgia. Yeah, I remember playing minutes and minutes worth of the original Mario Brothers and Duck Hunt. So, being the corporate juggernauts that they are, Nintendo decided to mind rape the sentimental fools by re-issuing old school games through Wii. The memories of your childhood will blind you to the fact that the Wii version of Super Mario Brothers is complete shit and nothing like the original. It’s the goddamn equivalent of what George Lucasdid and might do to the Star Wars franchise.

Your memories of being pantsed and beaten to a pulp in school will remain unchanged.

Catering to and creating the super-lazy

OK, I’m a lazy bastard. Everyone at the FWTC is. If Roode could, he would have one of those recliner/toilet deals with a built in mini fridge so he would never have to leave his TV.

We just hope the thing is actually hooked up to the sewer system.

The Wii, however, is breeding a new generation of super-lazy and re-programming the current generation of regular lazy. If you have a wireless system in your home, you can connect your Wii to the outside world. Your little Wii mii bullshit avatar can interact with other bullshit miis and “expand” your digital recreation world. Well, not expand it to the point where you actually have to leave your house. That would be insane.

Do we need to revisit this, again?

Netflix now has a partnership with Nintendo. You can now download movies straight to the Wii. OK, that’s sort of awesome. Think about it, though. First it’s movies then pizza. Eventually, you’ll be able to order groceries with this thing. Where does it end? Prostitutes? Puppies? Surplus Polaris warheads? Yes, you can do this shit online too (I’m sure some douche has put one or two cold war era missiles on eBay), but that usually involves getting off your ass and walking to the computer. The need to move will be virtually eliminated.

Perhaps the most colon fisting thing about the Wii is that much of the games simulate shit mankind never really thought of or had the need to fake. Who the hell wants to fake walk? You got up this morning and went to the bathroom to take a dump. That’s walking. Want to bowl a quick set? There’s no need to go to the trouble of going outside and interacting with people. Just pop Wii bowling into the contraption and fake bowl your ass off. Does Wii simulate the smell of stale beer and cigarettes you’d get at a real bowling alley? Hell no! What’s the point in bowling if the smell of three day old urine isn’t in the air?

That's atmosphere you're smelling.

This is poser bullshit.

We’ve compiled a Nobel Prize winning analysis of a select group of activities comparing and contrasting the respective Wii and real life experiences. The “winner” of each has been decided using a complicated system of ones and zeros. Nevermind, it’s too difficult to explain. Just go with us on this….

1. Tennis

Wii cost: Retail price of $30 plus needed accessories.

Real life activity cost: Racket, shoes, balls; $200. for no thrills.

Richness of experience-Wii: You’re just waving around a controller in your living room hitting a ball that isn’t really there to a opponent who doesn’t exist

Richness of experience– Real Time: Who the hell knows. You run around, grunt like an ape, and sweat like a fat man climbing the stairs.

Wii cost: About $20 depending on what version you get. In spite of popular conjecture, the new Tiger Woods game will not be NC-17. We kind of wish it would be only with Eliza Dushku and Summer Glau.

It's been a while, but you didn't think the Eliza Dushku references were finished, did you? The Summer Glau reference is for Roode.

Real life activity cost: This also depends on the “version” you get. Cheap public courses run around $25 and you get to keep any used condoms or heroin needles you find. Private courses could run as high as $200 and the used condoms are extra. Clubs? We’re still trying to figure out why anyone needs more than one.

Richness of experience– Wii: As with Wii tennis, you’re pretty much waving your arms around like an epileptic shit-tard. But, you don’t have to put on pants.

Richness of experience– Real life: As with most (all) Scottish recreational sports (there are at least two, right?) golf is just another excuse to get shit faced in public.

Winner: We’re going with real life golf only because, drinking in public is being social. Drinking by yourself in front of the television is sad.

Wild Card: Golf carts make for great battering rams. Also, we’re pretty sure it’s not technically “drinking and driving” in the eyes of the state.

3. Hockey

Wii cost: $10, depending on which brand you opt for. If you want to look slightly less bat-shit nuts, you’ll want to get a Wii hockey stick which most places don’t sell individually. In order to make the retail rape a little more memorable, you’ll have to buy the entire “sports pack.” That’s anywhere between $20 and $40 depending on the store and brand.

Real life activity cost: They typical cost for equipment is usually covered with the overall cost of joining a team. Hockey stick, pads, helmet, blah, blah, blah… something around a shit load (scientifically speaking). The true cost, however, is the amount of head trauma and brain damage you’ll rack up over the years.

Richness of experience– Wii: It’s a lot cheaper, but a lot less satisfying. You can’t really body check the coffee table, nor can you punch your spouse in the face when the ref makes a bad call. Of course, punching your spouse in the face is mandatory in some southern states whether or not you’re playing hockey.

Richness of experience– Real life: Absorbing and inflicting pelvis crunching pain is what makes hockey great. When you get wheeled into the emergency room you can rest assured that the guy you kicked in the spleen will keep you company.

Winner: Real life hockey for all the reasons mentioned above and so many more.

Pictured: Character building.

Wild Card: Fist fights on the ice are considered sport. Fist fights in your home over Wii hockey will get you on Springer.

4. Mario Kart

Wii cost: $30 to $50. If you want to opt for the Wii wheel it will be closer to $50. The wheel really only exists to make it a little less goofy looking pretending to drive your couch.

Real life activity cost: That really depends on several factors. Since Mario Kart is, essentially, racing around, side-swiping other cars, and throwing random things at your fellow motorists, it compares to driving anywhere in New Jersey, Philadelphia, Richmond, Seattle, Los Angeles, or Dallas. The only major difference being that Mario Kart isn’t nearly as violent.

Normal driving conditions on the I-15 through San Diego.

The costs are directly related to your state’s/province’s traffic fines and insurance coverage. We’re not factoring in the actual car cost, because some states don’t have inspection and, therefore, don’t care if you put your vehicle together with duct tape and string.

Completely legal in New Mexico.

Richness of experience– Wii: Eh, I guess seeing all the Mario World characters putting aside their respective grudges to race each other in bloody death is entertaining enough. Except for Toad. That little shit stain is annoying in any incarnation. Eat shit, Toad!

Richness of experience– Real life: Hard to say. It’s a friggin miracle if you can work up enough speed to approach 20 MPH on Jersey 42 let alone run someone off the road while braining them with a turtle shell. However, the I-90 from Northwest Idaho through Western Montana is a real life Carmageddon. If you careen off a mountain in Mario Kart, you end up reappearing at last place. Do the same on the Montana 90 and the state police will find your charred corpse during the next thaw.

Winner: Montana.

Wild Card: No one gives a shit if you speed in either Mario Kart or on Montana I-90. In one, you are racing as a character that doesn’t really exist. In the other you simply cease to exist.

At some point in our lives, we’ve all lived in a shit hole. Whether in the projects of Boise or the academic ghettos of off campus housing, they all have one thing in common: the people who own it don’t give a shit if the toilets flush in reverse or a family of possums set up shop in your underwear drawer. If you don’t like it you can leave.

Pay your rent on time or you will be evicted from this paradise.

—

This is the 21st century (no shit). Slums aren’t limited to real life anymore. There is “virtual” everything- virtual dating, virtual marriages, virtual mafia, virtual prostitutes, and even virtual homes. That’s right, many of us have a particular place we “live” on the web. MySpace used to be the best neighborhood to hang your hat, but it’s degenerated into the Old Detroit of social media.

Badly in need of ED 209.

—

The only really universal web community anymore is Facebook. I’ll give you Linked In, but that’s really more for business types who want to keep tabs on their competition, secretly looking for new jobs, or exploring another avenue of sucking up. OK, there are other social networks out there, but I think it’s safe to agree that Facebook, for the time being, is the most popular and well used. I guess we can say Facebook is our interwebs home and landlord. Sure, everyone loved their digs. There weren’t as many bullshit applications and outright spam like you would find on MySpace. It seemed more orderly and user friendly. Something about it make you feel comfortable and at home. But, behind that civilized, Norman Rockwell image, lurks one of the most corrupt and negligent slum lords you’ll ever meet.

Something even worse than this.

—

Like millions of people who lack anything else to do, I built a Facebook page a few years ago. I fiddled around with the settings, privacy, and aesthetic shit. It wasn’t without its charm. Then, the other shoe dropped and Facebook started ball tagging everyone with their random acts of bullshit.

§

1. Dicking with your profile settings:
This has happened to thousands of faithful users. One day, everything’s hunky dory. You just finished joining every Jonas Brothers fan page that exists. You feel fulfilled. After changing your status message for the 50th time that day (everyone needs to know when you poop) you sign off, secure in the knowledge that your profile is worthy of some sort of Internet award. Something useful, not like that Pulitzer Prize crap. Maybe a lifetime supply of Irish whiskey, Trojans, and douche. I’m spit balling here.

Do they have whiskey scented?

—

Who are you kidding? You can’t wait until morning to take another spin on Facebook. You’re addicted, just like the rest of us. Go ahead. You know you want to. But, something is awry. Why the hell is only half my profile information showing? Why aren’t the settings registering? Shit, none of the privacy settings I chose are working. No, asshole, I don’t want my pic to be seen by people in federal prison. NO, do NOT give my address out to those serial rapists! For the last fucking time, STOP showing OJ Simpson as my grandfather! Who’s fucking with me?

You’ve become the latest victim of something I like to call, “The Facebook-fuckedya.” Sometimes it happens randomly. Other times it seems like you’re the victim of a vendetta. All of the time, it sucks a mountain goat’s ass. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. It’s Russian roulette. Sometimes the chamber has the bullet. Sometimes the revolver just goes “click.” Once the Facebook fuckedya lands on you, it’s hard as hell to escape it. It’s a free social site. What the fuck do they care? You’re not paying them. Maybe your profile was hacked. Maybe the server is fucked. Maybe Facebook hates your kind.

That’s what I thought. Eat shit pug nuts.

—

2. Dicking with your pictures:

What’s the equivalent of being robbed on Facebook? Having your pics swiped. No, no one hacked the system and stole your pics so he can print and show them off at the annual “Guess the bodily fluid stain” con. Facebook just decided to fuck with you.

Oh, fuck you.

—

Just one night they were gone. Again, no rhyme or reason. It lands on you like a glob of seagull shit. Go ahead, check. It won’t do any good. Facebook has done its job well. Does this sound familiar?

Why can’t I get into my photos? Horse shit! I just uploaded 5000 of my friend streaking through Mass after he got trashed on Listerine! What? “You do not have any photo albums.” WTF? The hell I don’t, mother fucker!

3. Dicking with your access:
The aforementioned issues are bad enough. At least, you could gain access to the system to find out there was a problem. You can’t even get in now. Correct screen name? Check. Correct password? Check. OK, I’ll just reset the password, just in case. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Holy tap dancing Irish Jesus, what the fuck is taking Facebook so long to email me that confirmation code? Finally! OK, new password. SHIT! It’s still cock blocking me.

Trust me. Pictures of actual cock blocking were horrific.

—

What?

—

What the fuck does this even mean?

—

That’s the pot calling the kettle black, you sanctimonious assholes!

—

4. Outright not giving a shit:
Fine. Facebook is riddled with problems in the same way our national warning system it riddled with complete and utter ass pudding. We have a voice! We will be heard! Contact the administrators and give them an earful of your bitching.

Do it. Try to reach someone, fudge sack.

—

You follow the logical steps one would take in order to get to the “contact Facebook” page. The problem is that there is no direct route from A to B to C. If you want to get to the page with the feedback form, you first get dumped into what they call a Help Center.

All LIES!

—

Naturally, you select the “Contact Facebook” link. That’s what they want you to do.

WTF? What does any of this have to do with contacting Facebook?

—

Nice try, but they’ve thought of that. Facebook and its bevy of third world tech agents don’t want to actually speak to you. Instead, they throw you like a week old baloney sandwich into the trash that is their pre answered questions. Mostly, these FAQs are created to help the mouth breathing Velcro sneaker wearing mentally fuckedafied do basic things like log on and type. It’s useless for the rest of us. No! I want real answers that don’t read like Chinese stereo instructions, damn it!Screw it. What’s next? Hey, what’s this?

—

Fucktastic. It’s a Facebook users’ blog chocked full of thousands of other confused and frustrated sons-a-bitches looking for a glimmer of hope. The blog is more of a sounding board about how much Facebook sucks leprechaun nuts than an actual helpful resource. Most of it of the posts are peppered with spelling errors that could technically put you in that windowless “special” class in junior high. Shit, shit, shit shit shit!

Me no git whi my profil cant be showed good.

The only way to contact Facebook is to stumble upon the “Hacked Profile” link. You saw it before, but you figured since your profile wasn’t technically hacked, you had no business using it. Well, 45 minutes have passed and you’re fuming with pipe bomb building rage! Fuck it! Fill the bastard out!

Why the hell would anyone want to be a “fan” of Facebook security?

—

You fill out the form and then Facebook slaps you in the face, yet again.

Working on getting this fixed as soon as you can?
When the fuck will that be?

—

Yuppers, they come right out and tell you that your problem is, in fact, your problem. They’ll get to it if and when they have time to. Not a cotton pick’n moment before.After some more wandering around the Help site, you finally find a bug report link. It’s completely understandable why you were unable to find it in the two hours you’ve been trapped in Facebook help center hell. It’s conveniently buried 27 aggravating pages in. Go on. Submit a “bug report” but the answer is the same.

“Although we’re unable to reply to every bug report at this time, we may contact you for more details about the issue as we investigate the report. Thank you for taking the time to improve the site.”

Translation: Fuck you.

Perhaps, one of the best examples of Facebook just not giving an elephant’s shit comes from their own stock response. The same generic, automated script is posted to issues on the user blogs that are serious and can potentially deal the Dead Man’s hand to your account and sanity.

“We are aware of the problem that you described and apologize for the inconvenience. Unfortunately, we do not have a specific date for when this issue will be resolved but hope to fix it as soon as possible. We appreciate your patience.”

Thanks for contacting Facebook,
Catriona
User OperationsFacebook

This is one of many automatic “piss off” responses spat out at the masses. This particular one was posted in October of 2007. The bug was posted in March of that year. The fucking problem still runs rampant all over Facebook over TWO YEARS LATER. Thanks for nothing Catriona, if that is your realy name.

Catriona?

—

What’s the best thing to do when your Facebook profile is plagued with glitches, errors, and overall fucktarded problems? Well, this little Irish girl burned the city to save the people. My account is FUBAR? Fine. I’ll level its ass.

Pictured: Lesser of two evils.

—

I deactivated my account and started over again. Sure, that was a complete pain in the ass and I lost a couple of years worth of electronic memories. Hindsight tells me that Facebook isn’t a necessary part of life. Mankind existed before it, right? In theory, we don’t need social media to function. Don’t you remember what I said in the beginning of this article? Facebook is like heroin. I may not need it, but I fucking NEED IT!